Break of Dawn
by Silverblind
Summary: Dawn is the hour of secrets. -PWP-


**I regret nothing.**

* * *

The pink light of dawn found them tangled together, Daud's fingers tracing slow circles of the skin of Jessamine's thigh as she threaded her fingers through his hair. Suddenly she rolled away, as if to rise, bending over the edge of the bed to pluck something from the floor, but his hand on her waist was quick to bring her back against him. He was surprised to see that she was not clutching her nightgown, as he had expected, but his own worn leather gloves, swept up from where he had let them fall the night before.

"Those are mine," he said pointedly as he saw her slowly slip them on. They were obviously too big, and as she flexed her fingers, the old leather did not protest.

"They feel… strong," Jessamine murmured, staring at each of her gloved fingers in turn as if she had never seen them before. "Almost a part of my hand." She laid her palms against his bare chest. Her voice was still hoarse from sleep.

"Years of use," he answered, reaching to pluck the gloves off her hands, but she twisted away. He followed her, splaying a hand across her stomach to hold her to his chest. "Years of work. Good Serkonan leather. Hard to find."

"Worn smooth…" she mused aloud. "But still solid."

He grumbled an answer, distracted by the strands of dark hair that streaked her neck. Brushing them away, he trailed his lips from her shoulder to her jaw, earning a contented sigh from her, and his eyes fluttered shut. He felt her twist again in his grasp, and the hand that caressed his face was still clad in leather, as was the one that suddenly pushed into his shoulder, with enough force to force him flat on his back. His eyes swung open, but she was on him before he could protest, rising pale in the dissipating gloom, naked but for the gloves that clung to her forearms as she straddled his thighs. His hands twitched at the sight, eager to draw her against him and devour every inch of the skin she offered to his hungry eyes, but her voice rang out before he could move, imperious, commanding:

"Don't move."

He obeyed, though as she lay her gloved hands on his hips, the heat that rushed through him made him groan low, and he wanted nothing more than to take her hands and guide her touch. He resisted, his arousal now a long line of heat against his belly, hard and aching.

"Don't move," she repeated, and her fingers started tracing simple patterns atop his thighs, circles and line, never straying toward where he wanted her to touch him most. A strangled moan was all he could manage as he watched her hands crawl closer, closer, but they never touched him, always dancing away at the last second. His breath caught in his throat when a finger finally brushed against him, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he growled low, squeezing his eyes shut to will himself still. The leather of the gloves raised goosebumps wherever it tread, teasing and taunting, until, finally, he felt ready to go mad.

"Jessamine – "

The hand she wrapped about him at his plea was still leather-clad, but almost as soft and as supple as her own hand. She gave a stroke, then another, and she could not fail to notice the shuddering breath that escaped him as his fingers scrabbled at the sheets, bunching them into his hands as they tightened into fists. Her thumb swept at the bead of moisture gathering at his head, the leather whispering promises of release and pleasure. To feel him writhing beneath her was exquisite.

"You may touch me now, Daud."

The words had barely left her mouth that he shot up, sitting, his hands leaving the sheets to grip her thighs so tight she knew she would have bruises by noon. He kissed her hair, her cheek, her brow, her mouth, panting her name as the rhythm of her hand on him grew faster, coaxing him toward the edge of an abyss he wanted nothing more than to jump into. Her warmth seeped through the gloves, so warm and soft and _good_ , that he could not think of anything but her. He buried his face where her neck met her shoulder, wondering if he should bite or kiss, curse her or bless her. He could not decide, so he settled on groaning her name one last time as he bucked wildly into her hands, and a wave crashed over him, blinding pleasure bordering on pain washing over his entire body as thick white ropes of his seed painted his stomach and hers, a glove smoothing his hair back, away from his face, while another still held him between their shuddering bodies, tight and warm.

"Good Serkonan leather," Jessamine whispered into his hair. "I'll find you another pair."


End file.
